NEW YORK—Getting your driver’s license is an American rite of passage—a doorway to freedom, a symbol of independence.

That’s why most teenagers sign up for driving lessons and take their road tests the minute that they’re eligible. Most teens—not me.

I can’t tell you exactly why I never got my license. I think it was a combination of being really busy during high school and growing up in New York City, a place where alternate-side-of-the-street parking and deranged drivers can make having a car more of a nightmare than a godsend.

Whatever the reason for my former lack of driving ambition, I have been recently plagued by the fear that I will never get my license and will end up as one of those little old ladies who have to rely on shuttle buses to transport them from place to place. Yes, I know I’m crazy, but sometimes insanity spurs us to action—so I have made learning to drive my summer mission.

One of my best friends from high school who similarly never learned to drive agreed to join me in my quest for the holy driver’s license. Because she was scheduled to get out of school a few weeks earlier than I, she was in charge of finding the driving school. About a week after I got home, she called me, very excited.

“I think I've found the place,” she said. “It’s called ‘Professional Driving School.’”

“Professional Driving School?” That name sounded about as legitimate to me as “High Quality Fast Food” or “Authentic Mexican-Chinese Cuisine,” but my commitment to learn to drive overrode my better judgement. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s go for it.”

I arrived at the driving school for my first lesson, and they sent me outside where my instructor was awaiting me. His name, they told me, is Jay.